<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>James &amp; Barnaby by Wikketkrikket</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24821896">James &amp; Barnaby</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wikketkrikket/pseuds/Wikketkrikket'>Wikketkrikket</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Arranged Marriage, Identity Porn, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Steve's supposed to marry a Billionaire but his shirt says Eat the Rich, Swearing, Tony is bad at picking fake names, pre-serum steve</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:21:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,739</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24821896</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wikketkrikket/pseuds/Wikketkrikket</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>From the prompts 'identity porn + soulmates' and 'arranged marriage + pre-serum Steve'.</p><p>Steve Rogers has medical debt so ridiculous that if he doesn't do something about it, his mother will be out on the street. He swallows his pride and agrees to a 'charity marriage' with the elusive son of Howard Stark, so Howard can show off how wealthy and generous they are. Maybe it would have worked, too, if he hadn't then met the love the love of his life on his last night of freedom.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Rogers/Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>389</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Adorable soulmate stories (primary Tony/Steve), Stony Loves Steve 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>James &amp; Barnaby</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/gifts">mariana_oconnor</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For mariana_oconnor. All the prompts were so much fun! I wrote a little for nearly all of them before settling on this, which is part of the reason it isn't as polished as I'd like. I only just made the deadline -_-;; It's also my first time writing a Soulmate AU, so I hope you enjoy! </p><p>P.S. This story (probably) takes many liberties with the US healthcare system. I did very little research and ignored what I did find out in favour of tailoring it to fit this AU. Please ignore any inaccuracies, and for goodness' sake vote for someone who will give you universal healthcare.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">
  <span class="u">James &amp; Barnaby</span>
</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">
  <b>Charity Marriage</b>
</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">
  <em>(Redirected from Dime Marriage)</em>
</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">
  <b>Overview</b>
</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">Charity Marriage is a practice originating in the United States where a wealthy person marries someone living in poverty. It is a type of <span class="u">arranged marriage</span> where the wealthy party can demonstrate their charitable nature, and that their wealth is so substantial that a lucrative match is not needed; whilst the poorer party is able to access financial security and a more affluent lifestyle. It is often referred to as a 'Dime Marriage', a slang term pointing to the small amount of money the poorer party brings into the marriage.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">The process of Charity Marriage is a formal one, following several set steps, and is almost always initiated by the parents.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">
  <b>History</b>
</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">
  <em>For more information, see <span class="u">History of Charity Marriages</span> (disambiguation)</em>
</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">The first recorded Charity Marriage was in 1634 between Edward Monkton and Hannah Smith, though from Monkton's diary historians believe the practice already existed. Monkton states that, 'having come upon the age of marriage in the New World' (1) he and other wealthy European settlers found the pool of acceptable candidates within their own <span class="u">social class</span> 'woefully small'(2) and had to look more widely. Hannah Smith was selected by his parents because she was 'a goodly young lady, who spoke her prayers well, curtsied prettily and was pleasing to the eye with no sign of being marked for another' (3), and also because 'her family, being poor, and often burning straw instead of wood or coal, are most mindful of the elevation that might be brought upon them by the marriage, and wept with gratitude for the charity being done them' (4). Once married, there are few mentions of Hannah in Monkton's diary.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">The practice of Charity Marriage was very common for several centuries, believed to account for around 40% of marriages in the US at its peak. Charity Marriages became a symbol of status, desirable for the aspiring middle classes, who would sometimes arrange marriages with people only slightly less well off than themselves. The practice began to decline soon after the end of the <span class="u">American Civil War</span> when a newspaper article (5) suggested domestic slaves, usually women, were being forced into Charity Marriages with white servants or less-important relatives of the family in order to keep them in the house so that their free labour could continue to be exploited.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">After the <span class="u">financial crash of 1929</span>, the rate of Charity Marriages declined even further as even the wealth of the very rich was perceived as less certain.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">
  <em>Modern Charity Marriages</em>
</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">As of 2015(6), Charity Marriages are believed to account for less than 3% of all marriages in the US and less than 1% of marriages worldwide, although similarities have been noted to other arranged marriage customs such as <span class="u">miai</span> in Japan and particularly <span class="u">Shim-pua marriage</span> in Taiwan.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">Despite the low number of genuine Charity Marriages, the descriptor 'Dime Marriage' remains in popular use, particularly as a derogatory term towards marriages where there is a large <span class="u">age gap</span>, <span class="u">wealth gap</span>, or as a racial attack on marriages where the members are an <span class="u">interracial couple</span>.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">
  <b>Process</b>
</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">A traditional charity marriage follows five set steps, sometimes called 'The Five Meetings'. Each stage must be passed to the mutual satisfaction of both parties before the marriage will take place. The steps are:</p><p class="western"> </p>
<ol>
<li>

<p class="western">Selection – The right of selecting a partner lies solely with the wealthy party, who will seek out needy but deserving partners for their children; often with an extensive set of criteria. In the past, it was seen as extremely bad etiquette for a poor family to overtly approach a wealthy family to offer a child in marriage, often compared to <span class="u">begging</span> and a reason for rejection in and of itself. In more recent times, however, it has become acceptable to 'advertise' an eligible son or daughter in the newspapers or online, providing it is the wealthy family that makes the first direct contact and expression of interest.</p>
</li>
<li>

<p class="western">Introduction – A meeting then takes place between the parents of the marriage candidates. The marriage candidates themselves are not present. This meeting acts as a kind of interview, where general factors such as finances, education, health, and whether either party has a <span class="u">blemish</span> (<span class="u">bond mark)</span> is considered. The wealthy family is expected to provide proof of their income and assets, whilst the poor family is permitted to dwell more on the candidate's personal skills and attributes.</p>
</li>
<li>

<p class="western">Proving – At this stage, a goodwill exchange is made to prove the wealth of the richer family and the merits of the poorer family. Traditionally this takes the form of the wealthy family sending an extravagant gift to the poorer marriage candidate, who sends a hand-made gift in return demonstrating their particular skill. If the gifts are accepted on each side it is generally considered to be the beginning of a formal agreement, where it is no longer acceptable for either family to court other offers until the process is concluded in either a <span class="u">marriage</span> or refusal. For this reason, the extravagant gift often takes the form of a <span class="u">diamond engagement ring</span>.</p>
</li>
<li>

<p class="western">Consideration – Separate meetings take place where each marriage candidate meets their potential partner's parents. The exact form this takes can vary from a casual chat to a <span class="u">formal interview</span>, where probing questions will be asked. The aim is generally to establish whether the marriage candidate's personality is compatible with the potential partner's and with the family as a whole.</p>
</li>
<li>

<p class="western">First Meeting – Once all four previous steps have been completed, the marriage candidates are finally permitted to meet, either alone or with parents present, and are able to begin to get to know each other. Depending on the families involved, they may be expected to agree or refuse the marriage at the end of this meeting, or may be allowed to try <span class="u">dating</span> for a set period before making a decision.</p>
</li>
</ol><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">*</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">Are you crazy?!'</p><p class="western">Bucky was taking the news about as well as Steve had expected.</p><p class="western">'I'm gone two months and this is what you do?! This is why I can't leave you alone!'</p><p class="western">'Buck-'</p><p class="western">'You can't tell me your mom has agreed to this?'</p><p class="western">Steve felt his frown dig a little deeper into his face. You didn't bring moms into it. 'Yeah, she did. She's the reason I'm doing this, she's done enough for me. At first she wasn't sure about it, but it's what I want so she agreed.'</p><p class="western">Bucky groaned, pulling a hand down over his face, his expression changing from anger to resignation. 'It's what you want?' he echoed. 'Steve, you're a damn stubborn idiot.'</p><p class="western">Steve shrugged. That wasn't exactly news. Still, though, he didn't think it was <em>that</em> stupid an idea. 'I don't exactly have a lot of choice here, Buck. We're up to our necks in debt, and it's my fault. If I don't do something, we won't even make rent.'</p><p class="western">Bucky's face softened slightly, even as he said, 'And you don't have any friends to help you? Like me? How come your pride can take becoming a dime bride but no, asking for help is too much?'</p><p class="western">'I can't let you do that, you-'</p><p class="western">'You don't tell me what to do, Steve Rogers. At least not today. I can wire you the money right now.'</p><p class="western">'Only if you became a millionaire in the last two months,' Steve sighed.</p><p class="western">For the first time, Bucky paused. 'Exactly how much debt are you in?' He asked.</p><p class="western">Steve sucked in his cheek. 'You remember I was in hospital last July?'</p><p class="western">'Yeah, for... pneumonia was it?'</p><p class="western">'That was May. July was my heart.'</p><p class="western">'Yeah, but, shit, Steve, your mom's insurance-'</p><p class="western">'I was late going down to theatre. The first bypass I was still twenty. The other two were after midnight and I'd already turned twenty-one.'</p><p class="western">'So you weren't insured?'</p><p class="western">'I was not.'</p><p class="western">Bucky hissed through his teeth. 'You didn't tell me. How much?'</p><p class="western">'Two hundred thousand dollars for the operation.'</p><p class="western">'Shit.'</p><p class="western">'Plus consultants, anaesthetists, the medication, the time I was in hospital recovering, the-'</p><p class="western">'Okay, okay. But you've still been getting all your meds since right? Your insulin and the rest?'</p><p class="western">'Yes. Mom insisted. And so the crippling debt.'</p><p class="western">Bucky looked up at the ceiling for a long moment, gathering his thoughts, then he turned back to Steve. 'I still don't like it,' he said. 'Are you really sure about this? What if you end up with someone awful?'</p><p class="western">Of course Steve wasn't sure. It wasn't exactly how he imagined his life would be. But he couldn't just sit still watching his mom waste away from stress any more either, working doubles and triples, scratching around for every spare cent. She had done so much just to keep him alive. Now it was up to him to let her start living again.</p><p class="western">Steve shrugged. 'I'll be awful too, so they divorce me and I can take half their money with me.'</p><p class="western">Bucky snorted. 'Sure, Mr Pride with a side of Morals. I'll believe that when I see it.'</p><p class="western">'Can't afford pride any more. It's touch and go with the morals.'</p><p class="western">'Steve...'</p><p class="western">'Buck.'</p><p class="western">For a moment, there was silence. Then, at last, Bucky sighed in defeat. 'Alright. Let's find you a millionaire. And you'd better cancel your haircut.'</p><p class="western">Steve nodded self-consciously, fingers instinctively going to the back of his neck, just about able to feel the bumps and whorls of the blemish there. It was still grey and cold, and now, it would stay that way the rest of his life.</p><p class="western">Later, when his Mom had gotten home from work, and questioned Bucky about his trip, and Steve had convinced them both, <em>again</em>, that this was the only option, they finally got to work on his listing. They were going to put it up on all the websites they could, and hope someone bit. The notes they made were not encouraging.</p><p class="western"><em>Steve Rogers, </em>it read, in his mother's neat handwriting. <em>5''4. 95 pounds. Caucasian male. Blond hair, blue eyes. Surgical scars on chest, abdomen and scalp (latter not visible). Angina. Heart murmur/pacemaker, recent triple bypass. Diabetes (type 1). Colour-blindness. Severe asthma. Sinusitis. Idiopathic scoliosis, ankylosing spondylitis and associated joint problems. Frequent stomach ulcers. Infant scarlet fever and meningitis. Fully vaccinated, no dental issues. Talented painter and sketcher. Recently forced to leave art school due to ill health and medical debt. Father died in military service. Mother a nurse. Open to offers from men, women and people of all genders. </em></p><p class="western">The three of them stared at it.</p><p class="western">'Well,' Bucky said eventually. 'At least you're fully vaccinated with good teeth?'</p><p class="western">'I sound like a shelter dog,' Steve said. 'We might as well write 'loves kids and other animals'.'</p><p class="western">'I forgot you even had some of these,' Bucky said, scanning the list of conditions. 'Wait, do we need to mention the TIAs you had in high school?'</p><p class="western">'I still think we'll be much better off if we don't list it all,' Sarah shook her head. 'This is just to make them want to meet us. Once we make a good impression that way, then we can fill them in on the rest.'</p><p class="western">'I don't want to mislead anyone more than we have to. We're already ignoring the blemish.'</p><p class="western">'Well, why don't we just put 'extensive medical history'?'</p><p class="western">'Nah,' Bucky said. 'Remember they're doing this to make themselves look good. The more pathetic you look the better. No offence,' he added quickly, seeing Steve's scowl. He took the list, drawing an arrow and scribbling <em>'plus TAIs' </em>in the margins. Neither of them corrected him. 'Of course, if you really want to sell yourself then.... Sorry, Mrs Rogers, close your eyes.' He wrote one more thing at the end of the list. Steve read it and immediately felt himself going bright red.</p><p class="western">'Buck!'</p><p class="western">'What? It'll make you more appealing to these people.'</p><p class="western">'Hmm?' Sarah looked over his shoulder. 'Oh.'</p><p class="western">'We're not putting that!' Steve protested.</p><p class="western">'He might be right, Stevie,' Sarah said gently. 'And, you know, it will stop them from expecting anyone more... experienced.'</p><p class="western">'We're not putting it,' Steve spat through gritted teeth, tearing the paper away from Bucky and furiously crossing out the word <em>Virgin</em>. 'It's not even true.'</p><p class="western">'<em>What</em>?!' Bucky and his mother cried in unison. Steve pushed his chair away from the table. He was not having this conversation.</p><p class="western">'I'm going to get a drink,' he said, heading into the kitchen. He was angry, and he didn't want it to explode out at them. None of it was their fault. Apart from the <em>virgin </em>thing, they hadn't written anything that wasn't true. Even that was, well, debatable. Steve found himself opening the fridge door harder than strictly necessary, or at least trying to. No-one else would have noticed, probably not even the door itself, the hinges barely protesting. He really was pathetic. And what kind of person was going to pick someone like him? Especially if they found out he had a bond mark.</p><p class="western">Steve could only be grateful that when the finger print had appeared on his skin when he was seventeen – four years later than average, of course, when he thought he had gotten away with it – it had come out on the back of his neck. If he wore collared shirts and let his hair get a little long and shaggy, he could just about cover it. Only about ten percent of the population got a mark like that, meaning there was another ten percent out there who were unblemished, wandering around not knowing that someone else was carrying their finger print on their skin, a mark that would respond and come alive only to their touch. Less than a quarter of people had anything to do with any of it, which meant your chances of finding your other half were infinitely small. These days, most people just thought the pairings were coincidence anyway. If you asked people, hardly anyone believed they were the sign of soulmates any more.</p><p class="western">And yet, if your date saw you had a mark and it didn't respond to them, it seemed to pour cold water over the whole thing. Not to mention the persistent stereotype that those with blemishes were weaker, more passive, the submissive half of a relationship; seen as less capable in school and the work place, regardless of any actual evidence, more likely to be passed over for jobs and promotions. It made Steve even angrier, especially as he was small and sickly and weak and, apparently, no matter what choices he made, destined to become tied to someone who would pity and pet him. Marry him to make them feel good about themselves. It made him feel sick with shame.</p><p class="western">Even though he knew he shouldn't, Steve found himself writing a profile for Bucky in his head.</p><p class="western"><em>James Buchanan Barnes, </em>it would say. <em>Known as Bucky. 6''. 260 pounds. Caucasian male. Brown hair, brown eyes. No scars. One small shoulder tattoo (Geometric design with personal significance). Fully vaccinated, no medical issues. Dyslexic but makes no difference if he wears tinted glasses. Non-smoker. Respects women, and yet – as a result? - gets a date any time he damn well pleases. Family orientated, helps his own relatives as well as his best friend and his mother. Exciting job as a camera man, just come back from a two month trip filming </em>Race Across the World<em>. Undebateably </em>not<em> a virgin. Debt free and financially secure. Does not need to sell himself to a stranger to make ends meet. </em></p><p class="western">It just wasn't fair.</p><p class="western">Steve took a deep breath. Tried to ignore the rattle.</p><p class="western">No. <em>He </em>wasn't fair. Bucky had always been there for him, done everything he could to help out. Steve couldn't resent him just because fate had dealt him a better hand. He selected a can of soda from the fridge, trying to decide whether the tightness in his chest was anger or asthma. Bucky had followed him into the kitchen.</p><p class="western">'Inhaler,' he said. Asthma, then. Punishment, probably; fate making Steve even more pathetic because he dared to complain about it. He dug out his inhaler and gave himself a couple of doses, feeling his chest begin to ease almost immediately.</p><p class="western">'So we put the profile up,' Bucky said. 'And your mom's already had someone interested.'</p><p class="western">
  <em>'What?!'</em>
</p><p class="western">'Four now,' his mom called from the table. 'Five. Six. Seven! Steve, you've never been so popular.'</p><p class="western">'How have they even read it this fast?' Steve asked, sitting back down. He couldn't think. He hadn't expected anything this soon; he thought it would take days or weeks before he got any interest, if he had any at all. Sarah had gone into the inbox section of the site and was working through the messages.</p><p class="western">'Oh, that one's just spam. It must generate when a profile is added. Maybe they're all – oh, no, this one is genuine – Sixty-seven years old?! I don't care how rich you are, I won't – Oh! That's disgusting! No I will not 'rent' my son for a night, number three – or to you number four – this person wants to know your sperm count, guess they're desperate for kids? - This one is spam, this one is just a penis, this one wants to see <em>your </em>penis; hmm, this one is polite, seems quite nice actually, likes dogs, long walks, art – but wants to know if you'll agree to a sex change. Right.' She stopped clicking through the messages, which were building up and up second by second. 'Is anyone else starting to think this really is a bad idea?'</p><p class="western">'It's always like this with dating sites,' Bucky said in his trying-to-be-reassuring voice. 'You get a flurry of weirdos at the beginning who message every new profile, then it settles down after a while.'</p><p class="western">'How would you even know?' Steve demanded. Bucky had never needed a dating site in his life.</p><p class="western">'You'd better hope he is, Steven,' Sarah said grimly. 'Because at the moment our best candidate is only interested if you turn into a woman.' Biting her lip in determination, she started clearing out the rest of the messages.</p><p class="western">Steve groaned, burying his face in his hands. It wasn't too late to back out, of course. But if he did, what he was going to do about the medical bills? They'd have to declare bankruptcy.</p><p class="western">'You know, I can probably cover your rent for a while,' Bucky said quietly. 'Or you could stay with me. With work, I'm hardly ever home anyway. It would be like having your own place, except-'</p><p class="western">'Except you have done quite enough for this family, James Barnes,' Sarah interrupted firmly. 'We're incredibly grateful, but I will find a way to support my own son-'</p><p class="western">'Your son,' Steve said, 'Will find a way to support himself. Or, at least, marry someone who knows what they are signing up for and has too much money to care.'</p><p class="western">'Well, here's one for the maybe pile,' Sarah said, scrolling down what looked to be a comparatively substantial message. 'This one is actually written by the parent. He wants a match for his heir, to keep the wealth in the family and safeguard against hostile corporate takeover, improve their reputation as a family firm committed to charity, blah blah – oh. <em>Oh.' </em>She fell silent, turning white.</p><p class="western">'Mom?'</p><p class="western">'Steve, he says he's Howard Stark. As in Stark Industries. His son's worth is estimated at twelve-point-four <em>billion </em>dollars. And he wants to meet me.'</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">*</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">'You know,' Bucky said, a few days later. 'If you go through with this, you're not going to be able to keep wearing that shirt.'</p><p class="western">'Shut up,' Steve said, eloquently. His shirt said <em>Eat the Rich </em>and Steve had never felt more strongly in favour of it. He went back to massaging his right leg, which was aching way more than usual. Or maybe he was just noticing it more because he was already in a bad mood.</p><p class="western">For some reason he had imagined the process of the Charity Marriage would take a long time to get through, but it had been less than a week since they had posted the profile and they were already on stage three. Almost as soon as his mom had responded to Howard Stark's original message, she had been invited to come and meet him in person at Stark Industries two days later.</p><p class="western">Sarah had agonised over making a good impression, trying on outfit after outfit, testing out everything she owned or could borrow in every possible combination before she settled on one. She got up an hour early to do her hair and make up, and Steve had sat on her bed, watching her apply it all, trying to ignore the weight of guilt filling up his stomach. So much for providing for himself. His mom still had to do everything for him.</p><p class="western">In traffic, the bus down town took forty minutes each way; and yet Sarah was still back in under two hours. Steve hadn't even moved from her bed. Everything was acting up and he'd developed another fever, so despite his tension he'd fallen asleep. When his mother woke him, she'd changed out of her fancy clothes and cleaned her face of the make up. She'd looked much more herself.</p><p class="western">The meeting had gone okay, she'd thought. It had been brief, only twenty minutes or so. Stark had had notes. He had asked a little more about Steve's and their family's medical history, had tersely explained terms – Steve would be expected to be the model trophy husband, basically, faithful and obedient to the family, and in return his debts would be paid, he would be fully provided for and his mother would receive a generous monthly allowance – and then had seemed to consider the conversation closed. He hadn't been at all interested in who Steve was as a person beyond Sarah's (not entirely truthful) assurance that he could 'toe the line'. When Sarah had asked what his son, Tony, was like, Stark had dismissed the question with 'He's fine, he'll do as he's asked'. He had not asked about blemishes, presumably not thinking it was important. Sarah had not liked Howard Stark one bit.</p><p class="western">'I don't know if I want to send my baby into such a cold house,' she'd said, pressing a hand to Steve's cheek. If she'd said it differently, Steve might have agreed, politely declined the offer from Stark and begun again. Except, if there was anything in this world that would make him dig his heels in, it was being patronised. He'd insisted they wouldn't get a better offer, that they had to press on.</p><p class="western">The engagement ring had arrived next, delivered by a man in a suit and the sort of face you couldn't remember if it wasn't right in front of you. Steve had put the black velvet box on top of his dresser, and stared at it, rubbing absently at the cold patch of skin beneath the blemish on the back of his neck. Given that it had only been a couple of days since the meeting between his mother and Stark, and that Stark hadn't been interested in knowing about him as a person, it obviously hadn't been chosen with him in mind. They'd probably bought the ring ages ago, ready to send out to whoever would take it.</p><p class="western">Well, fine. There was no reason it should bother him. Steve was trying to marry whoever would take him too. He'd opened the box, and, as predicted, it had been an elaborate show of wealth devoid of personality. The band was almost a centimetre wide, looked like it was made of platinum, filled out with row after horizontal row of small diamonds; all leading to a rock the size of Steve's knuckle in the middle. They wanted him to wear <em>that? </em>Revolted, he'd snapped the box shut again. Pulling on his <em>Eat the Rich </em>t-shirt had been almost an involuntary reaction. As had phoning Bucky, and saying he needed to go to a bar, <em>now</em>. Assuming his leg would stop complaining enough to let him get up.</p><p class="western">'You're the one trying to marry a multi billionaire.'</p><p class="western">'Yeah, well, he won't be a billionaire by the time I'm done with him.' Steve hauled himself to his feet. His leg protested, but he decided to let it. If he let a little pain stop him, he'd never do anything.</p><p class="western">'Oh,' Bucky grinned. 'Let me guess. Hmm. A medical charity? Pay for everyone's health care?'</p><p class="western">'For <em>starters</em>.'</p><p class="western">Bucky laughed. 'That poor guy doesn't know what he's letting himself in for. Did you manage to find out anything else about him?'</p><p class="western">Steve shook his head. 'His dad is obviously keen to keep him out of the public eye. There's a couple of references if you search online, but when you try to follow the link or find a picture the page has always been taken down. Makes you wonder what he's trying to hide.'</p><p class="western">'Steve, are we one hundred percent sure you're not about to marry a serial killer?'</p><p class="western">Steve shrugged. 'If he is, he'll have to kill me quickly or the cold season will finish me off first.'</p><p class="western">Bucky winced. 'Can you please not make jokes about the ever present spectre of death hanging over you?' He squeezed Steve's shoulder. 'It's alright for you. You'd be dead. I'd be the one left here doing the grieving thing.'</p><p class="western">'I'm sure you'd find plenty of girls to comfort you, Buck.'</p><p class="western">'Yeah, well, let's not find out okay? Now, where are we going?'</p><p class="western">'Spectrum?'</p><p class="western">'Okay, fine. But you have to help me with the wristbands. Truthfully!'</p><p class="western">Steve grinned. 'Come on, Buck. I wouldn't do a thing like that to you. Twice.'</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">*</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">Even if he'd wanted to mess with Bucky again, there was no opportunity. The Diva herself was on the doors, welcoming everyone with her customary sugary warmth.</p><p class="western">They'd been there on many night outs since turning 21. It was one of the few places that openly welcomed people of all sexualities and genders, and had a truly zero tolerance policy against any kind of discrimination. Things were made easier too by a table full of a rainbow of wristbands just inside the door, with different colours to indicate whether you were looking and who you were looking for, along with black bands to indicate 'None of your business' and white ones for, according to the sign above the jar, 'Ask me like a socially well adjusted person'. That jar was always nearly full.</p><p class="western">'Well, hello again my buttercups,' The Diva said, beaming at them. 'What'll it be?'</p><p class="western">'The usual,' Steve said, picking out a blue band for bisexual. He hesitated over the pink bands (<em>Looking)</em>, thinking of the ludicrously flashy engagement ring still sitting on his dresser. But he hadn't sent a return gift yet, hadn't even started painting it, so he wasn't technically off the market just yet. He slipped the pink band on next to the blue. The Diva cooed sympathetically.</p><p class="western">'Aww, honey, still? Well, there's some new faces in the house tonight, maybe you'll get lucky. And what about you, sugar?' She turned to Bucky, twirling a dark green band around her long-nailed fingers. 'You're not going to make me give you the band of shame again, are you?'</p><p class="western">'I wouldn't want to damage your fine establishment by misrepresenting myself,' Bucky said, reaching for the band, but The Diva held it teasingly away.</p><p class="western">'Why don't you try one of these instead?' she asked, indicating a jar of bright green ones instead. The label read <em>Convince me</em>.</p><p class="western">'Only if it's you doing the convincing,' Bucky said, getting a laugh in return as The Diva slipped the dark green <em>Cishet</em> band onto his arm, followed by a pink. She winked.</p><p class="western">'Maybe next time. Have fun, boys.'</p><p class="western">'Can you tell the bar staff he's not allowed alcohol?' Bucky asked, pointing at Steve. 'He's single handedly propping up Big Pharma.'</p><p class="western">'Do not tell them that,' Steve said, dragging Bucky through the thick scented curtain and into the bar itself.</p><p class="western">The Spectrum was unlike any other establishment in town. More of a bar than a club, and more of a club than a bar, it defied definition. For one thing, instead of being pitch black, the place was softly lit with coloured lights, mirrors, glittering chandeliers and crystals, every surface sparkling. To the right of the bar was a large area full of secluded booths, each one closed on three sides and piled high with luxurious cushions and soft furnishings, with a rose-coloured lamp to read the drinks menus and colour guides by. The rest of the place was given over to a heaving dance floor and stage. There was live music almost every night, though today the music was being pumped out through speakers and the stage was being taken over by dancers looking for some space. It was crowded even compared to usual.</p><p class="western">'Geez,' Bucky yelled into his ear. 'Talk about <em>new faces</em>. I'm happy Dale's doing so well for himself, but if this keeps up he's going to need to move to bigger premises.'</p><p class="western">'Dale?'</p><p class="western">'From high school.'</p><p class="western">'Does he work here?'</p><p class="western">Bucky looked at him in bemusement, then pointed back at the curtain where The Diva could just be seen ushering a group of female patrons inside. Steve felt his mouth fall open. All the years they'd been coming here, he'd never connected the fabulous African-American lady on the door with the quiet, studious boy that used to sit behind him in home room. If they'd taken a vote for <em>least likely to become a drag artist...</em></p><p class="western">'I need a drink,' he shouted.</p><p class="western">'I'll get this round,' Bucky said. 'What do you want?'</p><p class="western">'Beer?'</p><p class="western">'Try again!'</p><p class="western">Steve scowled. Bucky was right, of course, he was on multiple medications that did not mix well with alcohol; but at this point how much sicker could he really get?</p><p class="western">'Cider then.'</p><p class="western">'Appletiser, excellent choice!'</p><p class="western">Steve huffed. 'Fine, but only because you're buying, jerk.'</p><p class="western">'Oh, yes, I'm such a horrible friend, trying to stop your liver from exploding.' Bucky rolled his eyes. 'Go find us some seats, stupid punk.'</p><p class="western">Steve did so, deliberately shoving against Bucky to get past. It was a well worn argument, one they had more out of habit than anything these days, but it still would have been nice to win at least once. He settled into an empty booth near the edge of the dance floor, remembering fondly the time he had given Bucky a purple band (<em>Not Interested) </em>instead of a pink one, and how it had taken hours for him to work out why no-one was responding to his charms. Good times.</p><p class="western">His revelry was interrupted by a young man – decidedly <em>not</em> Bucky – throwing himself into the seat opposite.</p><p class="western">'Hi,' The man said. He looked to be about Steve's age, dark hair sticking up at odd angles, a well groomed goatee covering his face below what were, frankly, most astonishing brown eyes Steve had ever seen. He couldn't stop staring into them. It was like he had never seen eyes before, and suddenly he was uncomfortably aware that he was never going to see anyone he found as attractive as this man ever again, just because of his eyes.</p><p class="western">'Hi,' Steve said. The stranger was only wearing one wrist band, a tie-dye effect one that Steve couldn't immediately decode.</p><p class="western">'Here's the situation,' The man said. 'My evil ex is over there, your eleven o'clock – don't look! - He's coming this way and I'd really rather not see him, so,' the stranger paused for breath. Steve felt his heart begin to hammer. He'd seen this trope in countless romcoms; but surely people didn't actually go around asking total strangers to pretend to be their date in real life? Especially not hot people with amazing eyes and, now that Steve was looking, a great body. 'I'm just gonna hide under your table,' he finished, and promptly disappeared beneath the table, the long cloth barely rippling.</p><p class="western">'Um,' Steve said intelligently to the place where he used to be. 'Okay?'</p><p class="western">A hand emerged, giving him a thumbs up, and quickly withdrew. Steve took the opportunity to glance at the colour chart. A tie-dye band meant <em>Fuck if I know</em>. It wasn't exactly helpful. He turned his head, trying to subtly spot the Evil Ex. Instead, he spotted Bucky coming back.</p><p class="western">'Don't sit down,' he said, not wanting the sheltering stranger to get kicked in the head, but it didn't look like Bucky was staying.</p><p class="western">'Girl asked me to dance,' he said, putting the promised Appletiser down in front of Steve. 'You don't mind, do you?'</p><p class="western">Steve shook his head. He was used to it if nothing else.</p><p class="western">'I'll find you soon,' Bucky promised. 'Go mingle! Have some fun!' With that, he disappeared back into the crush. Steve went back to scanning the crowd, then, trying not to look too conspicuous, he stuck his head under the table cloth.</p><p class="western">'What does the bastard look like?' He asked. The stranger looked at him in amusement.</p><p class="western">'How do you know he's a bastard?'</p><p class="western">Steve knocked on the top of the table. 'This table's ride or die. As long as you're under my table, I hate who you hate.'</p><p class="western">'Thank goodness I'm not a homophobe, then,' he said, making Steve laugh this time. 'Stupid hipster glasses. Dark hair in a stupid hipster hair cut. Stupid hipster shirt and bow tie. World's smugest mouth.'</p><p class="western">Steve nodded and sat back up, scanning the crowd. 'Got him,' he said. 'It's okay, he's going to dance. I don't think he noticed you.'</p><p class="western">The stranger erupted out from under the table, taking the seat opposite Steve without a hair out of place. Or, more accurately, his hair was all out of place but it suited him perfectly. Steve wanted to take him home and do terrible things to him. He'd never felt drawn to anyone like this before, a yearning like a physical ache in his stomach, worse than any ulcer. He felt nauseous. This was why Steve could never get a date.</p><p class="western">'Sorry,' the stranger said. 'I've never been here before and I know he hasn't either. I thought he'd been following me and we were about to end up in crazy town.'</p><p class="western">'Well, we wouldn't want anything crazy to happen,' Steve said. He could feel the conversation wrapping up, ending before it had begun, and he desperately didn't want that. 'So, um, can I get your name? In case you go missing and I need to tell the police they should check under random people's tables.'</p><p class="western">He was bad at this.</p><p class="western">'Sure,' the man said, looking around nervously. Keeping an eye out for his ex, Steve assumed. 'It's, um, it's... Bar.'</p><p class="western">'Bar?'</p><p class="western">'It's short for something!' The stranger exclaimed hastily. 'Bar, short for, short for... Barbara?'</p><p class="western">'Barbara?' Steve repeated, mortification uncurling in his gut. He shouldn't have assumed. He should have checked pronouns or something -</p><p class="western">'No, not Barbara, you misheard. It's Bar..naby! Barnaby! My name is Barnaby!'</p><p class="western">Maybe this guy was a weirdo after all. Or he was just as nervous as Steve was. Either way, Barnaby quickly moved the conversation on.</p><p class="western">'What about you?' He asked. 'I need to know who to address the thank you card to.'</p><p class="western">'It's S-' Steve cut himself off. If the Starks found out he'd been flirting at a bar after the third gift had already been sent, he could ruin the whole thing. 'It's James,' he finished, hoping Bucky wouldn't mind Steve borrowing his name. It wasn't like Bucky ever used it anyway.</p><p class="western">Barnaby beamed at him. 'My best friend's name is James too. I knew I trusted you! You can't go wrong with a James.' He pointed at the glass near Steve's elbow. 'You still going on that or can I buy my hero a drink?'</p><p class="western">'I wouldn't mind a beer,' Steve ventured. Bucky would kill him, but one wouldn't hurt.</p><p class="western">'Consider it done,' Barnaby said, standing and heading for the bar. 'Nice shirt by the way. Eat the Rich, definitely.'</p><p class="western">Steve managed to smile and the minute Barnaby was gone found himself adjusting his clothes self-consciously. He'd thrown an open shirt over the t-shirt to make himself look a bit smarter, with the added security of the high collar. He made sure it was standing up straight, patting down his hair at the back. The last thing he wanted was for Barnaby to spot the blemish. <em>Oh please no</em>. He'd had too many years of dates pressing their fingers against it, finding the mark did not activate, then leaving disappointed; all the while assuring him that no, <em>they </em>didn't believe in an old fashioned idea like him having a pre-determined one-and-only soul mate, but they didn't want to take things any further for totally unrelated reasons. Though, to be fair, perhaps they did. Perhaps they were put off by how short he was, or the way he was on so many medications he practically rattled when he walked, or maybe it was the crippling debt. Line up, ladies and gents.</p><p class="western">Bucky was making his way back over to check on him again, having danced a few dances with a girl with beautiful dark skin and even darker hair. Steve waved frantically at him, shaking his head. It was childish, but he'd learnt the hard way that heads rarely turned his way if Bucky was nearby. He pointed towards the bar, where Barnaby was just getting served. Bucky followed his point, realised what was happening, gave Steve a huge thumbs up and a grin and disappeared back out into the dancing. Crisis averted.</p><p class="western">Barnaby came back to the table carrying two beers. He set one in front of Steve, sliding into the other side of the booth before sipping his own. His face contorted in disgust.</p><p class="western">'You don't like it?' Steve asked, taking a tiny sip of his own. It had been years since he had drunk anything and he could feel the alcohol shooting straight into his brain, not to mention his stomach. He was going to have to go slow on it.</p><p class="western">'I'm not big on draft beer,' Barnaby replied. 'I just wanted to impress you with how manly and cool I am.'</p><p class="western">'I figured that out from how you hid under the table,' Steve replied, downing more of the beer. He needed to go slow, he knew that, but it was so nice to be doing this; flirting over drinks with a stranger who actually seemed to be interested. It was so <em>normal</em>. Guys with blemishes, with health conditions, guys in dime marriages, they didn't get normal.</p><p class="western"><em>Just tonight, </em>he promised someone in his head. Maybe Tony Stark. <em>Just tonight, let me have this. Tomorrow, I swear I'll put on your gaudy ring and start work on whatever the hell I'm going to give you in return. Tomorrow I'll be faithful and obedient and do everything I'm meant to do. Just let me have tonight. He is the most beautiful person I've ever seen.</em></p><p class="western"><em> '</em>Oh yeah? And what would you have done?'</p><p class="western">'Defended you,' Steve said, before realising that Barnaby had meant if he had been faced with his own evil ex. To be honest, if she turned up, he didn't know what he would have done. Asked her if what they had done counted as sex, maybe.</p><p class="western">It happened towards the end of summer after he'd graduated high school. Out of nowhere he'd gotten a message from one of the art teachers, asking if he would consider life modelling for an evening class she was teaching, as he had an 'interesting body type'. He'd meant to disagree, he couldn't think of anything more humiliating than stripping off and letting strangers draw him, but at the time he had been trying to get more out of his comfort zone. It didn't hurt that Miss Rivers was only twenty-four, and although he had never been fortunate enough to be in her class, Steve had been nursing a crush on her for months. So he had gone, and tried not to feel too weird about it, and hoped to dear goodness that Bucky never found out about it, and at the end he had gone behind a screen to get dressed as the class filed out. Miss Rivers hadn't drawn him, just supervised. The next thing he knew, she had joined him behind the screen and he stood, frozen against a wall as her fingers went everywhere and did everything, and she kept asking him if he was okay, if it was good, if he wanted it, and he kept saying yes, because he was so damn touch starved, even though he would have preferred to have been touching her, even as a hot ball of shame started to fill him.</p><p class="western">It had been over almost as soon as it began, Miss Rivers withdrawing her hands and telling him, not unkindly, that his consent wasn't enthusiastic enough. The shame had flared into anger, and he had told her not to tell him what he did or didn't want, that he had said yes, but she had just shook her head, <em>apologised</em>, and told him to get dressed. When he came out from behind the screen she was gone, and Steve went home, cheeks burning, and never told anyone what had happened.</p><p class="western">If Miss Rivers turned up here, he wouldn't be able to face her.</p><p class="western">'Probably joined you under the table,' he admitted.</p><p class="western">'I wouldn't have minded.'</p><p class="western">Barnaby's smile was almost as intoxicating as his eyes. Steve couldn't look at it for too long, so bright it was painful. He smiled at his beer instead, and drank some more.</p><p class="western">'How about you finish that and come dance with me?' Barnaby asked.</p><p class="western">Steve had never been a good dancer, but just then he didn't care. He would have said yes if Barnaby had invited him to go out to the nearest dumpster and lie down in it. Something about this man just drew him in completely. He downed the rest of his beer, almost spilling some in his enthusiasm, and followed Barnaby out to the dance floor.</p><p class="western">He would never be able to describe how dancing with Barnaby felt. They kept it clean, and decent, and yet every brushing touch made Steve feel like he was lighting up, burning from the inside. He couldn't dance, he knew he couldn't, he knew he was making a mess of it this time too, and yet it felt as if they were moving in perfect synch. It was like his senses were widening, seeing the world for the first time, and yet simultaneously narrowing down so there was nothing but him and this gorgeous stranger. It was like he had swallowed a dozen compasses, and each and every one of them was pulling him towards Barnaby.</p><p class="western">Ugh. He had always been hopeless at poetry. The words he was trying to put to the feeling were too inadequate, too cheesy. It was much more simple than that. He knew, however irrational it was, and however unlikely it was to happen, that he wanted to be with this man, dancing, every second for the rest of his life. And that feeling might just break his heart.</p><p class="western">But not now, not yet. The spectre of his engagement, of the Starks, was tomorrow's problem. Tonight there was just this. Just them.</p><p class="western">He had to kiss him. He had to try. If Barnaby wanted it as badly as he did.</p><p class="western">This was crazy. They'd just met, they knew nothing about each other, Steve was <em>lying</em> to him about who he was, they'd barely had a conversation, and yet Steve found himself leaning in, trying to pull Barnaby close with his stupid, short, weak arms that were taking too damn long to get Barnaby where Steve wanted him, even though Barnaby was coming willingly – and then Steve was torn away, landing hard on the dance floor. Something crunched. Probably a rib. At least he had enough experience to know it wasn't broken.</p><p class="western">'What the fuck do you think you're doing?' It was the evil ex, of course. Steve had forgotten he was even there. Before Steve could get his treacherous bones arranged to get back on his feet, the guy had hauled him upright. 'You're going after him, right in front of me?'</p><p class="western">'It's nothing to do with you, Ty!' Barnaby was shouting. 'Let him go!'</p><p class="western">'I've told you before,' Ty took one hand off Steve's collar to shove Barnaby away. 'I don't care what you say, you're mine.'</p><p class="western">And that was a bridge too far. Steve punched him, hard as he could, right in the nose. The surprise made Ty let go of him, but as usual Steve's punch had done more damage to his hand than to Ty's face, and Ty shoved him away with both hands. Steve's knees gave way as he fell and he twisted awkwardly, winding himself on landing, just in time for Ty's foot to stamp down on his face. There went his nose. Steve held up his hands, trying to shield himself from a second blow; but of course Bucky had appeared by then and was hauling Ty away, quickly followed by two of the bouncers and The Diva herself. Steve sat up.</p><p class="western">'Oh crap, crap, crap,' Barnaby said, helping him to his feet. 'I'm so sorry, James, I knew he'd go off if he saw us but I just wanted to – I couldn't <em>not </em>- I'm really sorry. Your nose isn't broken, is it? Crap, we need ice. We need ice over here!'</p><p class="western">Steve touched his nose tentatively. It was bleeding, but no, he didn't think it was broken. Apparently Ty wasn't much more of a brawler than Steve was. The more pressing problem was his stomach. The alcohol would have irritated it enough, but now it had been sloshed around and was churning – <em>No</em>. He was<em> not </em>going to barf over Barnaby. He dashed for the front door as quick as he could manage, collapsing onto the kerb and emptying his stomach into the gutter. As usual, the smell of his own vomit made him retch, and for a while it was all he could do to try and vomit and breath at the same time. A warm, firm hand appeared on the back of his neck, helping keep him in position. Bucky. How many times had they done this? Damn, he was pathetic. Barnaby would probably sneak out the back while he had the chance.</p><p class="western">'I really liked him,' Steve muttered, bringing up a hand to wipe his mouth. The vomit had changed to acid and empty retches, so he thought the episode was over. Maybe.</p><p class="western">'Yep, Ty's one of a kind,' a voice replied wryly, and Steve sat bolt upright. It wasn't Bucky out here helping him, it was Barnaby. And Steve had just explosively emptied his guts in front of him. 'Here,' Barnaby said, offering him a bottle of water. Steve took it automatically, washing his hands and face with a little of it before rinsing his mouth out with the rest. At least his nose had already stopped bleeding.</p><p class="western">'Are you okay?' Steve asked.</p><p class="western">'Me? Yeah, fine, he didn't touch me.'</p><p class="western">'I didn't mean just now,' Steve said. He wanted to reach out and touch Barnaby's hand, but he chickened out at the last minute and rubbed the back of his neck instead. It was still burning where Barnaby's hand had been.</p><p class="western">'Yes,' Barnaby said, looking embarrassed. 'Yeah. My dad got a court order. He's not allowed anywhere near me. It seems to be working, I haven't seen him for months.'</p><p class="western">'What? We should call the police.'</p><p class="western">'No,' Barnaby shook his head. 'I think it might genuinely have been a coincidence. Besides, I don't want to waste any time talking to them when I could be talking to you. What do you say we get out of here?'</p><p class="western">Steve set his chin determinedly, ready to argue his case, but then Barnaby smiled and everything else disappeared from his mind. He only just remembered to text Bucky as they headed down the street together.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">*</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">Midnight came too soon.</p><p class="western">They'd wound up in a late night diner. It was the opposite situation to the bar; here Barnaby was the regular and Steve was the first timer. Barnaby had barely stopped talking, a nervous babbling that Steve found adorable. He waxed lyrical about the pancakes, the waffles, the hot dogs, but especially <em>the coffee</em>. He was, he said, a self-aware caffeine addict with a terrible sleep routine.</p><p class="western">'I can't sleep past five AM,' Steve admitted.</p><p class="western">'Some nights I don't sleep until <em>after </em>5AM,' Barnaby laughed. 'We'd be perfect for a bed share. You know, where you sleep in shifts.'</p><p class="western">'If we were bed sharing, I'd make damn sure we were in it at the same time,' Steve muttered, without thinking. Before he could panic about being so forward, Barnaby laughed again, a blush spreading over his cheeks. So apparently he could be smooth, just by accident. Is that how it worked for Bucky? He always said Steve overthought flirting.</p><p class="western">Conversation had come easily after that. They talked and joked, and ate waffles with cream (Steve's stomach and his sugar levels did <em>not </em>thank him, but they never liked anything he did so he ignored them), and Barnaby was hilarious, and passionate, and <em>smart</em>, losing Steve completely when he started talking about science; but his enthusiasm was contagious. By the time the waitress came and apologetically told them they were about to close, Steve was three-quarters in love already. As if he hadn't been from the moment Barnaby had chosen to shelter in his booth. They went outside and stood beneath a lamppost, neither of them wanting to go home just yet. They lapsed into silence.</p><p class="western">'Art,' Barnaby blurted suddenly. 'You like art. Does that include sculptures? Abstract ones?'</p><p class="western">Steve nodded a little cautiously. In the back of his mind he was wondering whether maybe, maybe Barnaby was about to invite him to his apartment. And, damn, Steve wanted to go, except there were two problems. One, most importantly, he was lying about his name and his availability; and he wasn't going to sleep with someone, even Barnaby, <em>especially </em>Barnaby, under false pretences. Two, he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold up. His bones were aching with tiredness, with the bruises of two hard falls on the floor, of dancing. He'd rested up a little in the diner, but he wasn't sure how much more they would take.</p><p class="western">'I know a place,' Barnaby said. 'It's like a, a sculpture garden? On the roof of the building where I work. I have my pass, we can get in, it's not far, and no-one will be there at this time of night, it's-'</p><p class="western">He was nervous again, babbling, rocking up and down on his feet. Steve interrupted with a smile.</p><p class="western">'Sounds great, Bar.'</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">*</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">'Wow.'</p><p class="western">'I know.'</p><p class="western">'I can't believe we're in the middle of the city.'</p><p class="western">'I know.'</p><p class="western">It hadn't taken them long to get to Barnaby's office building, which turned out to be just a few blocks from the diner, in the business district in the heart of town. The building was dark when they got there, tall and shadowy, but Barnaby manage to unlock it and get them in. They had made their way through the wide lobby, shoes echoing on the immaculate marble floor, Barnaby taking Steve's hand to guide him through the gloom, holding it, holding it, holding it as they got into the lift and he punched in the request for the top floor. The doors had opened into what looked like a cafeteria space, in a kind of glass conservatory, but Barnaby was still holding his hand and had led Steve right through and out of some sliding French doors. He had released Steve only then, leaving Steve to step forward alone and look around.</p><p class="western">The space wasn't huge, but it didn't change the fact that it was the most beautiful place Steve had ever been. Barnaby flipped a hidden switch near the doors and the place flooded with light; small footlights buried beneath plants, LEDs in the wooden walkways and trailed round the trellises. Truthfully, Steve had never been that interested in abstract art, but this garden was full of shapes; made of steel or stone or glass, all of them flowing like liquid, all of them catching the lights just right to seem alive. The plants and flowers had been perfectly chosen to compliment them, growing below and around and above and into them, the wind stirring them gently, releasing a delicate array of scents, making the whole place seem like a single breathing entity. It was possibly the most magical place he had ever been. Steve staggered onto a bench and sat, Barnaby coming to join him a moment later. Somewhere he could hear water running. There must be a pond or a waterfall tucked away someone he hadn't looked yet.</p><p class="western">'Did you do this?' He asked, somewhat irrationally, but somehow this place summed up exactly how Barnaby, this beautiful stranger Steve had somehow known all his life, made him feel. Only Barnaby shook his head.</p><p class="western">'No, I'm not that talented. The boss' PA picked out the sculptures, then they got a landscape artist to do the rest.'</p><p class="western">'This is the best garden I've ever seen. I could kiss them.'</p><p class="western">'Lucky them,' Barnaby said.</p><p class="western">Their eyes met. The plants rustled in the breeze, surrounding them with their sweet scent. It was enough to knock loose one of the sweetpea blossoms on the trellis above their bench, and the flower fell with enough force to make them jump. They both laughed, but the moment was gone, and it didn't matter because – because. Steve pulled his own thoughts up short. He wasn't going to spend the rest of his life with this man, kissing him, loving him. He was going to spend the rest of his life chained to Tony Stark.</p><p class="western">He could quit. Send the ring back and refuse to go any further. But then they would be bankrupt, his mom would be on the street because he was too expensive to live. He couldn't do that to her, not for a boy he had, after all, only known for a few hours. He owed her too much. He had to do it for her, even at the expense of his own happiness.</p><p class="western">It hurt too much to look at Barnaby, or the beautiful garden that was so full of him and the lunch breaks and coffee breaks he must have spent here. So he looked at his feet.</p><p class="western">'Come on,' Barnaby said. 'Come check out the view.' He headed to the edge of the garden, where waist-high barriers protected the employees from falling. Spread out below them, the city was like a map, drawn out in lines of light.</p><p class="western">'That's some view,' Steve said, leaning out for a closer look. He'd always fancied trying skydiving, imagined it would feel like flying, but even if they had been able to afford it he would never have passed the medical. So he stepped up onto the bottom rail of the barrier, boosting himself up on tip toes, leaning out as far as he could, feeling the wind on his face, and thought it must be pretty close.</p><p class="western">'Where are we?' Steve asked, trying to squint down at the shops below.</p><p class="western">'Midtown,' Barnaby replied. 'Do you know the Family Law Library and Legal Aid? Just opposite there.'</p><p class="western">Steve jumped and stared at him, only just catching hold of the railing again. 'That's the Stark Industries building,' he said. 'We're on top of Stark Industries.'</p><p class="western">'Yeah,' Barnaby said. 'But be careful. Don't want you getting up close and personal with the pavement.' He rested a steadying hand on Steve's back, and somehow that felt more intimate than every other touch they had shared that evening. Steve turned to look at him. They were more or less eye to eye now, leaning in closer and closer.</p><p class="western">But this was <em>Stark Industries</em>. It was an omen, it had to be. He hopped down off the railing, taking a step back.</p><p class="western">'Barnaby, I -'</p><p class="western">'No, no, I'm sorry, forget -'</p><p class="western">'No! I want to, I really want to, I just...' Steve trailed off miserably. '...I'm not free to.'</p><p class="western">'Oh.' For a second Barnaby looked hurt, devastated, but then it slipped from his face to be replaced by a cold, blank mask. 'Sorry. I didn't realise there was someone else.'</p><p class="western">'There's not,' Steve said. 'But I... it's not you. My life is just really complicated right now. There's some stuff I really need to do. And my mom's relying on me not to get distracted.'</p><p class="western">Barnaby looked at the sky, then at the ground, then finally at Steve as he shrugged. 'I get it,' he said. 'Honestly, I'm not... exactly... <em>free</em> either. My dad...' he trailed off, shrugging again. 'Parents, huh?'</p><p class="western">'They're the worst,' Steve said, turning to look back at the view. 'That and adult responsibilities.'</p><p class="western">'I hope whoever invented obligations steps on a whole bunch of Lego,' Barnaby agreed. 'Can I at least give you my number? In case things change.'</p><p class="western">Steve should say no. He knew he was just putting himself in the path of temptation. But he couldn't say no, he couldn't stand the thought of never hearing Barnaby's voice again, denying himself all hope. So he nodded, and they exchanged numbers, and then they stood together in silence, admiring the view and watching the city change beneath them until they were both frozen.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">*</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">By the time Steve made it home, his body was screaming at him. It was all he could do to drag himself through the door without falling over. He wanted to just collapse into bed, but he knew from bitter experience that if he slept without giving his aching joints at least a little heat he wouldn't be able to move at all when he woke up. So he hauled himself into the bathroom, stripped, and fell gratefully onto the shower chair. He had been offended when his mom had bought it (even though she had only bought it because he'd gotten too hot one time and passed out, nearly drowning), and had refused to use it for the longest time, but now he had to admit it had saved him a lot of pain more than once.</p><p class="western">He turned the water as hot as it could go and sat under it, taking deep breaths until he was able to push the aches and the bruises to the back of his mind, thinking instead about Barnaby, trying to etch deep into his memory how he had looked, how he had smiled, how he had taken Steve's hand and touched his back. He stayed there until his muscles were as loose as they were ever going to get and the shower was starting to run cold, before he reluctantly switched it off and got out, wrapping a towel around himself before hustling back to his room, drying off and digging out clean pyjamas.</p><p class="western">When he had stepped out the shower, his skin had been turned pink by the heat, but he was starting to realise that wasn't the only reason he'd been hot. Looking in the mirror now, his face was flushed, cheeks pink, and his chest was hot to the touch. Another fever coming on. Great. It always happened when he stayed up too late. Even the back of his neck was warm beneath the blemish.</p><p class="western"><em>Wait</em>.</p><p class="western">The blemish was never warm. <em>Never</em>. When he was a kid and burning up with fever, he used to touch his fingers to it, believing it would somehow cool the rest of him down. The only reason it would be warm would be -</p><p class="western">He ran back to the bathroom, chest heaving, and grabbed his mom's make up mirror from the side of the sink, before returning to his own room and the small mirror screwed to the back of his wardrobe door. It took a few agonising seconds to get lined up and the mirrors angled correctly, his hands shaking so badly that he dropped the make up mirror twice. Finally, he was able to see the back of his own neck and he brushed the ends of his hair away, pulled the collar of his pyjamas down, and sure enough, there was the blemish, the finger print of his soulmate, now coloured gently golden, very much alive.</p><p class="western">It was where Barnaby had touched him, on the kerb outside the bar.</p><p class="western">It was Barnaby's finger print. It was Barnaby.</p><p class="western"><em>Barnaby</em>. Of course it was. Hadn't he known that, the moment he had laid eyes on him? Hadn't something inside him looked and Barnaby and said, <em>Oh, of course. There you are</em>. Hadn't it really been that simple?</p><p class="western">Steve had never liked the idea of a soulmate. He hadn't liked the idea of fate or the universe or whoever forcing him to love someone. But it didn't feel like that any more. He could have fallen on his knees and thanked the powers that they had found each other. He could have run out into the night, asthma be dammed, joints be dammed, and straight back to Barnaby. He could have called him right there and then, despite the time, and told him everything.</p><p class="western">Steve was sitting on the bed, even though he didn't remember sitting down. There, on the dresser, was the black velvet ring box. The reason Steve didn't, couldn't, do any of those things. He was going to marry Tony Stark, and do it right, take it seriously, so that his mom didn't have to live in poverty. He was going to sacrifice everything, <em>everything</em>, to try and make up for the trials his body and health had caused them, problems he had never asked for, never wanted, had done nothing to cause. He had never asked for <em>any </em>of this. If things had been different, they – but things weren't different. They weren't.</p><p class="western">Standing abruptly, Steve wrenched open the closet and hauled out a large canvas only just narrow enough to fit. His art school had given it to him for a project shortly before he had been forced to drop out. Another thing he had to thank his broken body for. With his free arm he swept the ring box off the dresser, along with his deoderant and comb, making room to prop up the canvas. Then, he started to paint.</p><p class="western">This wasn't like normal. Usually, he sketched onto his canvases first, carefully building up lines, selecting colours one by one, getting help with the ones he couldn't distinguish between to make sure everything looked right. This was different, wild, he was almost throwing paint at the canvas, stabbing with with brush, trying to empty all the pain and anger and frustration that was too big to keep in, too much to process.</p><p class="western">Gradually, it worked. His colour selections changed. His shapes changed from angry splodges to controlled strokes. He thought about Barnaby, about laughing with him in the diner, about his eyes, about how he had looked hunched under the table, about dancing with him. More and more of the anger got painted over, got blended into everything else, until it was just a baseline in the music Steve was painting. Soon, he lost himself completely, pouring everything he felt onto the canvas.</p><p class="western">There was a knock on his door, and his mom poked her head in. 'Steve, I'm heading to work,' she said.</p><p class="western">'Okay,' Steve said. He was back to sitting on his bed, in paint stained pyjamas, chest heaving with exertion, staring at the painting. It was just an abstract swirl of colours, but -</p><p class="western">'Oh, <em>Steve</em>,' Sarah breathed, looking at it. 'Oh, sweetheart, that's... that's just breath taking.' She sat down on the bed beside him, pulling him close. 'It's your best work yet. I'm sure Tony Stark will love it.'</p><p class="western">Startled, Steve drew back from her; but she was right. He'd said he would paint a piece as a gift, in return for the ring. For the marriage he was giving Barnaby up for. Of course Stark needed to have this painting, own Steve's memories of that night. If Steve kept them himself, it would destroy him.</p><p class="western">So he turned his face away from the painting and into his mother's shoulder as if he was seven years old, and he nodded.</p><p class="western">'You're burning up again,' Sarah said. 'The painting is beautiful, but you really need to take better care of yourself. You can't stay out all night.'</p><p class="western">'Sorry, mom.'</p><p class="western">'Yes, well, inhaler, insulin and bed I think. I'll get this sent over as soon as it's properly dry. What's it called?'</p><p class="western">Steve looked back at the painting one last time, at the lines of yearning, and beauty, and joy, and pain, at all the things he couldn't have, and said, 'Hope.'</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">*</p><p class="western">Steve had suffered just about every disease going; had suffered pain so bad it had made him faint if he so much as twitched a finger, had stared death in the face so often that he and the grim reaper were essentially on first name terms by now, but he had never felt so uncomfortable in his life.</p><p class="western">He was in his suit. It was a cheap, itchy polyester thing that always felt too hot, that he'd only ever worn for funerals. The jacket had gone to holes in the armpit and he'd had to hurriedly try and sew it back together; and the cut of it had been out of fashion when his mom had bought it for him almost seven years before. The tie had been his father's. The shirt and shoes were Bucky's, and no amount of folding and tucking or padding with socks could disguise the fact they were far too big for him. The ridiculous engagement ring on his finger was making his whole hand ache, and he was desperate to take it off, but couldn't. He was sitting in his uncomfortable suit on a small couch that had probably cost more than their apartment, just outside the heavy oak door to Howard Stark's personal office. Opposite him, a few steps away over a marble floor, Stark's PA kept glaring stonily at him.</p><p class="western">She was only young, probably about his age, with thick and vibrant red hair that Steve had caught himself staring at, mentally working out the composition of the paint he would have to mix to try and capture it. The first impression he'd gotten, though, when she told him to sit down and wait, was that she was older. A hostile if professional manner and a well-tailored outfit could do that to a person.</p><p class="western">Apparently she was also immune to cold. Steve was sitting directly below the air conditioning vent, which he was almost sure she had deliberately turned up higher than any sane person would reasonably inflict on another. It was also making the air very dry. He used his inhaler, noisily. She kept glaring at him, no longer even pretending to work. Steve met her gaze, and took another puff.</p><p class="western">'I heard you were the one who curated the sculptures on the roof,' Steve said. 'It's amazing. You have a good eye.'</p><p class="western">'Yes,' she said. 'I do.' Then, with an air of having made a decision, she pushed back her chair and walked over to him, high heels clicking efficiently over the floor. 'I am Mr Stark's personal assistant,' she said. 'But I am also <em>Tony </em>Stark's friend.'</p><p class="western">'Nice to meet you,' Steve said, and didn't feel guilty that it came out sounding a little sarcastic.</p><p class="western">'If you hurt him, you'll be meeting the business end of my stilettos.'</p><p class="western">Steve looked at her shoes again. The heels were very pointy.</p><p class="western">'I'm not here to hurt anyone,' he said. 'I'm here to stop my mom from ending up homeless because of my medical debt.'</p><p class="western">'You're just a gold digger.'</p><p class="western">'It's a Charity Marriage. That's <em>literally</em> what I'm supposed to be,' Steve said, then sighed. 'Listen, Ms Potts. I don't... this isn't going to make any more difference to his life than he wants it to. If he wants me to sign the marriage certificate and then get out of his life, I will.'</p><p class="western"><em>And I'd go right to Barnaby, </em>Steve thought, but quickly pushed the thought, the name, aside. He'd poured all that out onto the canvas, and couldn't think about it without feeling the howling roar of the void it had left inside him. It hurt like a hidden bruise buried deep in his skin, like the ache in his bones in the middle of a flare up. He couldn't think about it. Ms Potts looked at him a moment longer, then nodded, turning to go back to her desk. As she went to sit back down, she paused.</p><p class="western">'When did you see the sculptures?' she asked, an odd look in her eye.</p><p class="western">Floundering for a lie, Steve was saved by the office door finally opening; a good half hour after their appointed time. Steve scrambled to his feet, feeling Howard Stark's dark, glowering eyes on him, looking him up and down. He turned on his heel and went back into the room, jerking his head to make Steve follow him.</p><p class="western">'Drink?' He said, sitting down behind the desk and pouring himself a glass of whiskey from a decanter. Steve stepped into the office properly, shutting the door behind him. It was barely ten thirty in the morning, and he was pretty sure that wasn't the first glass the Director of Stark Industries had had.</p><p class="western">'No thank you,' he said.</p><p class="western">'No,' Howard snapped. 'I wasn't offering, I was asking. Do you drink?'</p><p class="western">'No,' Steve said, shortly, dropping into the chair next to the desk he so clearly wasn't going to be invited to use. 'I can't. Messes with my medication. Messes me up.' He decided not to mention the beer from the other night and looked pointedly at the glass in Stark's hand. Stark laughed.</p><p class="western">'Good. Need someone to put him on the straight and narrow. We have a family history of alcoholism.' He downed the glass and poured another, impervious to Steve's harsh look. 'So,' he said, wiping his mouth. 'Stuart. Let's talk about you.'</p><p class="western">'Well, I think you should know my name is Steve.'</p><p class="western">'Whatever. Here's the thing. I don't really give a crap who you are, I just want you to marry my son. Make him look wholesome and family friendly. Stop him from creeping out to bars at all hours and, most importantly, show his wankstain ex that Starks can't be messed with, and that we don't need their whore money. So, this medical stuff. What's your life expectancy?'</p><p class="western">The question was so abrupt and tangential that it took Steve a stumbling moment to realise it had even been asked. He did not like this man. Even so, he gritted his teeth and said, 'Five.'</p><p class="western">'Five more years? Not too bad then. I just want to give him a solid foundation, you know? I'm not trying to ruin the kid's life. Besides, the tragic widower angle could work after you-'</p><p class="western">'No, sir. Not five more years. When I was born, the doctors told my mother I wouldn't live past five years old.'</p><p class="western">'And how old are you now?'</p><p class="western">'Twenty-two next month.'</p><p class="western">'Oh.' Howard Stark appraised him again, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips in a way that seemed oddly familiar. 'Well, aren't you a stubborn son of a bitch? That's good. You'll need that if you're going to handle Tony. You want to marry my son, Steve?'</p><p class="western">'I think the better question is, am I <em>willing</em> to marry your son in exchange for the money you promised? In which case, yes, I am, unless you have some even richer friends that are single. How much does she get paid, by the way?' He pointed at the door through to where Ms Potts sat. 'She is a delight; and if you undervalue her she'll definitely stab you through the balls with her shoe.'</p><p class="western">'She gets a good wage, better than the industry standard,' Stark said. 'But not as much as I'm going to be paying for you, my marvel of modern medicine.'</p><p class="western"><em>You might be paying more than you think, you bourgeois bastard, </em>Steve thought, but just about managed to hold back from saying. They were desperate for money, yet his mother had repeatedly hesitated over this arrangement. Stark didn't care a bit what happened to his son, provided it made them look good. What an asshole. If he really did marry Tony, and Howard came to visit, Steve had a vast selection of laxatives and not-quite-toxic coffee-coloured paints that might accidentally find their way into his father-in-law's drinks.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">*</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">Bucky was pacing. It wasn't helping Steve's nerves.</p><p class="western">'Will you sit down?'</p><p class="western">'I don't know, will you promise you won't marry yourself to an asshole?'</p><p class="western">'I don't see why it's a problem, I have an asshole for a best friend already.'</p><p class="western">Bucky glared at him but dropped into a chair. While Steve had been at his meeting with Howard, Sarah was out meeting with Tony Stark at some coffee shop. She was supposed to have been back by now. Bucky had come to see how it had gone, and when he saw she wasn't there had become even more jittery than Steve.</p><p class="western">'I just don't get why you're so tied to this, especially if his family is so awful,' he said. 'There has to be another way.'</p><p class="western">Steve sighed. It hurt when Bucky did this, as if Steve hadn't been going over and over it continuously in his head, especially since meeting Barnaby. He hadn't dared let himself text. He also hadn't dared tell Bucky or Sarah that he had met his soulmate, because he knew they would force him to call the whole thing off. Because Barnaby was his soulmate, that <em>was </em>what the blemishes meant, Steve was sure of it now. It wasn't a love being forced on him by the Universe, it was a love being given to him. Maybe, it he was healthy, he would have thought he was favoured rather than cursed. This, to find a love he couldn't have, to be offered a gift he couldn't accept, felt like the cruellest possible thing. And Bucky wasn't helping.</p><p class="western">'We've been over and over this,' Steve said. He needed to stop touching the back of his neck, he was only drawing attention to it, but his fingers just kept finding a way back there. The bond mark was always comfortingly warm. 'We can't get any more medical charity. My mom's insurance won't cover me any more. No-one who would employ me would insure me, and no-one who would insure me would employ me. Even if they did, it wouldn't cover the debt, and that's getting interest every day, plus whatever stupid disease I go down with next. We need a bottomless money pit, and luckily, there's one willing to have me.'</p><p class="western">'Yeah, but, come on, there must be something else we can-'</p><p class="western">'Yeah? Like what?' Steve demanded. 'Because I can't think of it, and I'm guessing you haven't been able to either. Come on, Buck, I thought when you helped with the profile you were on board with this.'</p><p class="western">'I am, I guess,' Bucky said. 'I'm just worried about you, stupid punk. What if he's some horrible controlling guy who won't even let us hang out?'</p><p class="western">'I'll climb out the window.' Maybe he would anyway. Though, as much as he cared about Bucky, there was someone else he'd want to see first.</p><p class="western"><em>Don't think about it. Don't think about him</em>.</p><p class="western">'You'd fall.'</p><p class="western">
  <em>You should delete his number. Remove the temptation.</em>
</p><p class="western">'I'd still reach the ground.'</p><p class="western">
  <em>This isn't fair.</em>
</p><p class="western">Bucky snorted a laugh. 'Can't argue with that.'</p><p class="western">
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p class="western">Finally, the front door clicked and Sarah entered, smiling in a way that didn't quite match her eyes as she sat down opposite them.</p><p class="western">'Well?' Bucky demanded. 'Is he an asshole? A serial killer?'</p><p class="western">'I don't think so,' Sarah shook her head. 'He seems quite nice. A lot nicer than his father, anyway. He was very keen to make sure I wasn't forcing you into this, Steve.'</p><p class="western">'Oh, he's reached the basic decency bar, then,' Bucky said.</p><p class="western">'I think it was more than that. He didn't explicitly say so, but I think he <em>is</em> being pressured into it. I got the feeling he just wanted us to be the ones to pull out rather than him.'</p><p class="western">'Well, he can keep wanting,' Steve snapped. 'I just endured half an hour of his dad lecturing me on his <em>expectations,</em> and I passed. I'm not wasting that by quitting now. If Tony doesn't want me he can say so.'</p><p class="western">'No, Steve, listen.' Sarah said, firmly. 'He was very impressed with your painting. He talked about it a lot, apparently he's already hung it in the hall of his apartment. And he said, if you didn't want to go through with the marriage but let him keep the painting anyway, he'd let us keep the ring.'</p><p class="western">'The diamond mine on a band ring?' Bucky asked. 'How much is that thing even worth?'</p><p class="western">'Over a million dollars, apparently. He even gave me a card for some places we could sell it.'</p><p class="western">'Great, deal, problem solved!' Bucky said, enthusiastically, beaming at Steve. 'This totally counts as you selling a painting for a million bucks.'</p><p class="western">'No, it doesn't,' Steve muttered. His heart was hammering. His pride had reared up at the idea – it was <em>charity, </em>his painting wasn't worth that, at least if he went through with the stupid marriage he was selling himself for the money, it was closer to a true exchange – but this would pay their debt off in a single go. If they were careful, saving as much of it as they could, he could probably cover his medical bills for the rest of his life and still have enough over for rent. Not to mention he could see Barnaby again; help him with whatever he was stuck with, make things change. Steve valued his pride pretty highly, but if it could take being a dime bride it could take this. He could accept help, accept charity, if it gave him the slightest chance with his soulmate, if it gave him back the slightest glimmer of hope; so he nodded. 'Okay. Yes. Yeah. Let's do that. Let's pull out and sell the ring.'</p><p class="western">'Alright,' Sarah smiled. 'I'll call him.'</p><p class="western">Steve nodded, then shook his head. 'No, wait. If I'm taking that much money off him, the least I can do is look him in the eye and thank him myself.'</p><p class="western">'Are you sure?' Sarah asked.</p><p class="western">'Yeah,' Bucky said, 'Because if you lose your temper and tell him his money is dirty and washed in the blood of the proletariat we're going to be back to square one.'</p><p class="western">'It's a lot of money, I should talk to him,' Steve said. <em>To tell him the painting isn't worth that. To tell him what he's doing for me, for Barnaby. To check his dad won't hurt him, or sell him off to someone terrible. To tell him, if I'm very lucky, that he might have saved my life</em>. He found he was feeling the warm spot on the back of his neck again. This time, it felt like a whispered promise, like someone breathing <em>I love you </em>onto your skin just as you fell asleep. And Steve <em>knew </em>it might not be that simple; that Tony might change his mind or Howard might put a stop to the exchange, that even if Steve was free Barnaby still wouldn't be, that Barnaby might not forgive Steve lying about his name, that Barnaby might not feel the same connection Steve did, but the bond mark was a warm reassurance. He knew, somehow, on some level so deep inside that it had gone well beyond self delusion and into cosmic certainty, that out there somewhere Barnaby was trying to find his way back too.</p><p class="western">They could do this. It would work, they would find a way to be together. After all, it was meant to be.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">*</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">The door to the coffee shop chimed and Steve swivelled his neck to look at it, but it wasn't Tony Stark. Not that Steve really knew what he looked like in real life; his mom had tried to describe him but <em>brown hair and brown eyes and one of those little beards </em>applied to most of the shop's patrons. The only reason he knew Stark wasn't here already, not recognising him, was that Steve was the only one sitting alone.</p><p class="western">But Stark should have been here. He was half an hour late already, and Steve had a feeling he wasn't going to show. Maybe he had thought Steve was going to insist on going ahead with the marriage so was getting out while he could. Maybe Steve should have just let his mom explain, and not have scheduled this meeting at all. Or maybe Howard Stark had found out about the bargain and was going to force his son into going through with it; and neither of them respected Steve's time enough to ensure the meeting happened on time.</p><p class="western">Beneath the table, Steve's leg was bouncing up and down anxiously, but it made his knee and ankle protest so he forced it to be still. He fished a pencil out of his pocket instead and began doodling on a napkin. He was barely thinking about what he was doing, but of course a sketch of Barnaby began to take shape.</p><p class="western"><em>This is ridiculous</em>, Steve realised faintly. <em>I only spent a few hours with him. </em>And hadn't stopped thinking about him since. It had been an agonising torture not to use the number in his phone, but he'd decided he couldn't until he was totally free. Which meant he needed to wait here for Tony Stark to show, no matter how long it took.</p><p class="western">For some reason, it was only in that moment that he suddenly realised that Barnaby hadn't contacted him, either. Not so much as an <em>I had fun</em> text. Steve had assumed that, like him, Barnaby was dealing with whatever he had going on that had stopped him from kissing Steve that night, but what evidence did he actually have of that? Just that his blemish had lit up at Barnaby's touch? Barnaby didn't even <em>know </em>that, and even if he did, Steve didn't know how he would react. Until Barnaby, the idea of having a one and only true love, forced together by fate, had made his stomach shrivel up in horror. What if Barnaby felt like that too? Maybe he would see the blemish and run a mile. Maybe he already had. Not a single text.</p><p class="western">Steve's pencil went through the napkin and skidded along the table top. It was starting to feel like the world was closing in. And wasn't Steve being selfish? He'd had grand plans to use Stark's billions where they were most needed, but as soon as he'd been offered a way for him and his loved ones to be okay, he had forgotten all about them. Damn. He was a monster.</p><p class="western">Steve's phone began to ring, and the caller ID said <em>Barnaby</em>. He could have ignored it, carried on waiting for Stark to show, rejected the deal, gone through with the marriage and helped a lot of people, but he didn't. He answered the phone. How could he not answer? Apparently even monsters were capable of love at first sight.</p><p class="western">'Hello?' He said, trying to ignore how his heart was hammering, his chest constricting.</p><p class="western">'James,' Barnaby said, his voice rough and sad and oh, Steve wished he had just used his real damn name, 'I...' he sighed, a noise of pain and frustration that made Steve's heart break.</p><p class="western">'What is it? Are you okay?'</p><p class="western">'I shouldn't be doing this,' Barnaby said. 'I'm supposed to be... but I don't care. I just...I need to see you. Please.' He sounded like he might cry. He sounded drunk. Steve was already on his feet and heading out the door.</p><p class="western">'Of course, I'll come right now. Just tell me where you are.'</p><p class="western">'I'm at home, but I can come meet you or something, I just...'</p><p class="western">'It's okay,' Steve said quickly, not sure he wanted Barnaby wandering the streets in his current state. 'I'm already downtown, I'll come right now, just give me your address.'</p><p class="western">Judging by the address Barnaby gave him, Stark Industries obviously paid very well. He had the penthouse in a modern block of serviced apartments, all blacked-out glass and discreet spotlights. There was a concierge on the front desk who asked him which apartment he was here for and called up to check before he let Steve into an elevator that was probably the size of Steve's bedroom, and had nicer décor. It opened at last into a small lobby with just one door. Steve knocked, only to find it was already ajar. Barnaby was sitting on the floor, head on his knees, just inside. Steve dropped down beside him.</p><p class="western">'James,' Barnaby said, the syllables slurring together. 'I'm sad-drunk.'</p><p class="western">'I can see that,' Steve said. 'Can you lift your head up? How much have you had?'</p><p class="western">'That much,' Barnaby said, pointing further down the hall where Steve could see a few empty bottles; one that had probably been wine, another looked like Vodka, and the last was a half of scotch or something similar.</p><p class="western">'I'm calling 911,' Steve said, hauling himself up on the wall, because that was definitely enough to cause alcohol poisoning; but he was stopped by Barnaby grabbing his trousers.</p><p class="western">'No, I'm okay,' he said. 'They were nearly empty anyway. It sucked.'</p><p class="western">Steve didn't answer. He was still looking down the hall, for once not giving Barnaby his full attention, transfixed. In his head, things were starting to fall into place.</p><p class="western">'He was quite handsome,' his mom had said. 'Brown hair, lovely brown eyes. One of those little beards that just goes round, you know?'</p><p class="western">'I get it,' Barnaby had said, as they looked down on the city. 'Honestly, I'm not... exactly... <em>free</em> either.'</p><p class="western">'Stop him from creeping out to bars at all hours and, most importantly, show his wankstain ex that Starks can't be messed with,' Howard had commanded.</p><p class="western">'It's, um, it's... Bar.' Barnaby had seemed so unsure when he had introduced himself, standing there, right next to the bar.</p><p class="western">'When did you see the sculptures?' Ms Potts had asked, with her eyes narrowed.</p><p class="western">And when they had danced together, it had just felt right. When Barnaby's hand left his neck, he had left it glowing. It had felt like fate was drawing them together, and when Steve had gotten home, he had painted like he had never painted before. His best work, the work that was going to be his ticket out of this marriage. The painting that was hanging right there in front of him at the end of the hall. <em>Hope</em>.</p><p class="western">He fell to his knees beside Barnaby – <em>Tony</em> – and wrapped his arms around him as best as he could, pulling him close. For a second, Tony was stiff, but then relaxed, nuzzling his face into Steve's shoulder.</p><p class="western">''s nice,' he muttered. 'But I have to... I lied to you.'</p><p class="western">'It's okay.'</p><p class="western">'No, it's not. I'm meant to be... I...' he trailed off, making a miserable noise somewhere between a sigh, a hiccup and a sob. Steve stroked his back.</p><p class="western">'Bar... are you meant to be at a marriage meeting right now?'</p><p class="western">Barnaby pulled away, blinking at him drunkenly, the alcohol blocking his usually alert synapses. Then he nodded unhappily. 'I don't want to,' he said. 'But my dad...' the rest of what he said was a slurred mess, something about <em>Ty </em>and <em>green energy </em>and <em>break all my stuff</em>.</p><p class="western">Gently, Steve lifted his chin. 'You're going to be just fine, Bar, I promise. Just... just arrange to meet this guy again when you're sober. Do it tomorrow. As soon as you can.'</p><p class="western">'I tried to get out of it,' Tony said, desperately. 'I tried to get a deal. But he wanted to carry on and meet anyway.'</p><p class="western">'I know, Bar, I know. It's going to be okay.'</p><p class="western">Tony shook his head, getting loose from Steve's hand and burying his face into his knees again. 'Don't want him,' he said. 'I just want you.'</p><p class="western">Despite everything, Steve felt himself lighting up, a light so strong it was as if his whole body was the bond mark, inside and out. He beamed.</p><p class="western">'You trust me, don't you?' He asked, gently, pulling Barnaby close, feeling rather than seeing his nod. 'Arrange another meeting. Please. Promise me.'</p><p class="western">'...he won't come,' Tony said, somewhere into Steve's shirt. 'Stood 'im up. Think I'm an asshole.'</p><p class="western">'I guarantee he won't,' Steve said, still unable to stop smiling. 'Let's get you to bed, okay? Then you can go meet him when you wake up. You're going to be okay, I promise. I <em>promise</em>.'</p><p class="western">He felt the tiniest of nods through his shirt, but Tony made no move to go to the bedroom. Instead his breathing slowed and deepened, and eventually Steve realised he had fallen asleep, right there on the hall tiles. And on Steve. Who, unfortunately, turned out not to be anywhere near strong enough to get him off, let alone carry him to bed. So he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Bucky, who arrived half an hour later to survey the scene.</p><p class="western">'What the crap have you done now, Rogers?' He demanded. 'You know when people say their best friend would help them hide a body they're usually being metaphorical.'</p><p class="western">'Can you just help me?'</p><p class="western">Bucky bent down and hauled Tony off him, finally allowing Steve to get up, massaging his dead arm. Between them, they carried Tony into the bedroom and lowered him onto the bed. Steve tried not to look around, or imagine being in that room under different circumstances He tried not to blush.</p><p class="western">'So which one is this, anyway?' Bucky asked, once they had left water and painkillers by the bed, ensured Tony wouldn't choke if he threw up, and departed. 'Your billionaire or that guy from the bar you've been pretending you aren't mooning after?'</p><p class="western">The grin returned to Steve's face, bursting out of him uncontrollably. 'Buck,' he said, 'You are not going to believe this.'</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">*</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">The meeting the next day ended up taking place at the Stark mansion. When Howard found out that the coffee shop meeting hadn't taken place as scheduled, he'd insisted on supervising. Steve hadn't cared. He just wished the hours away, nearly vibrating with anticipation, not noticing his aches and pains, not a care in the world. It was like he was disappearing, like the feeling he got sometimes when he lost himself in his art, only to come round hours later. This time, though, he was losing himself in Barnaby. <em>Tony</em>. Whatever. It didn't matter. All that mattered was they were going to be together.</p><p class="western">'I didn't expect you to be so eager,' his mom said to him, when he was ready to go twenty minutes early. 'Is there something you're not telling me?'</p><p class="western">Steve just shook his head, unable to stop smiling. He would tell his mom the full story, but Tony deserved to know first.</p><p class="western">Finally, <em>finally</em>, a sleek black car arrived to pick them up and they were taken to the most ridiculously ornate house that Steve had ever been to, far too big for one bitter old man to rattle around alone in, but he didn't care. It didn't matter how thick the carpets were or how comfortable the couch was to sit on, or how Howard was glaring at them as his mom tried to make small talk, as if the whole thing had been their fault. He just wanted to see Tony.</p><p class="western">'Go see where he is,' Howard eventually snapped at Ms Potts, who had been waiting unobtrusively by the door. She nodded and went out into the hall, and Steve heard her climbing the stairs. If Steve was asked to guess, they had probably collected a hungover Barnaby earlier, and he had collapsed back into bed on reaching the mansion. Steve was trying to keep an open mind about that – everyone he knew got drunk sometimes – but something about Tony drinking alone in the dark of his apartment, about his dad saying there was a family history of alcoholism... Steve wasn't so blinded by love that he didn't see there might be a problem. It hurt him, to see Tony in so much pain. But they would work on it, they would handle it together. He was sure they could.</p><p class="western">Only just remembering to excuse himself, Steve followed Ms Potts out into the hallway and hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. He wanted to run up them – he felt like he <em>could </em>run, if he was doing it for Tony – but held himself back. He was already coming on way too strong; there was no need to do it with the force of a hurricane. So he paced instead, waiting, trying to get rid of some of his excess energy.</p><p class="western">A tread came on the stairs and his head whipped up in hope, but it was only Ms Potts, surveying him as she came back.</p><p class="western">'Ms Potts,' he said, nodding respectfully as she passed by.</p><p class="western">'James,' she replied, going back into the living room. Steve watched her go, a little bemused. Tony must have told her about him, but how she had pieced it all together from the little information she had, he did not know. Then, from behind him and above him, there was a sharp intake of breath. Steve whirled round and beamed.</p><p class="western">Tony was frozen on the stairs, looking at him. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair and clothes were dishevelled with sleep and the lingering effects of alcohol, but the shock on his face was slowly turning into a small smile. It was an <em>Oh, of course</em>, sort of smile. A <em>there you are</em> sort of smile. He started walking down the stairs again, taking his time.</p><p class="western">'Mr Rogers,' he said, evenly. 'You lied to me.'</p><p class="western">Steve shrugged. 'You lied to me, too.'</p><p class="western">Tony had reached the ground floor now and stood before Steve, hands in his pockets. 'True. What a healthy start we've made to this relationship.'</p><p class="western">'If it helps, I promise to always lie to you,' Steve said.</p><p class="western">'You'd better, <em>James</em>.'</p><p class="western">'I will, <em>Bar.' </em>He couldn't wait any more. He closed the gap, put his hands to Tony's face, and kissed him.</p><p class="western">When they broke apart, breathless, a long moment later, Tony's hand was on the back of Steve's neck; the warm blemish burning up again at his touch.</p><p class="western">'Why is your neck so hot?' Tony asked, lifting his chin from where it had been resting on Steve's hair and moving his hand away. 'It's like it's – oh. <em>Oh</em>. That explains a lot.'</p><p class="western">Snorting with laughter through his wheezes, Steve couldn't speak, just buried his face in Tony's shoulder again. He didn't ever want to move, but Tony pulled away a little, looking at him with concern.</p><p class="western">'You alright there, buddy? You, uh, you got an inhaler?'</p><p class="western">Steve nodded, pulled it out of his pocket, and obediently took a few deep intakes from it. Then he went right back to Tony.</p><p class="western">'You are going to be so bad for my health,' Steve informed him, when he could speak again.</p><p class="western">'It's only fair,' Tony said. 'After the number you've done on my heart.'</p><p class="western">Steve couldn't help it. It was so damn <em>cheesy</em> that he couldn't help laughing; and once he had started he couldn't stop, and then Tony was laughing too, and they were kissing and kissing and kissing, and Steve didn't give a damn if it was cheesy, he didn't want this ever to end. Not for the rest of their lives.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">*</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">
  <em>Three Years Later</em>
</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">'Steven Stark-Rogers.'</p><p class="western">Steve took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage, knowing that – <em>yep. </em>A dreadful noise erupted from behind him as he tried to focus on shaking the professor's hand and taking his degree, tried to ignore that Bucky and his mother and his damned <em>husband</em>, who was definitely behind the whole thing, were whooping and yelling and generally making a scene the likes of which his art school had never seen. They had a banner. Oh hell, did they have <em>party poppers</em>? They were shooting string and confetti everywhere. At least the audience were watching them and not him as Steve stumbled from the stage, nearly tripping down the steps.</p><p class="western">Once the ceremony was over, Tony raced straight over to him, throwing his arms round him and peppering kisses all over his face and neck. Once upon a time, Steve might have thought he was drunk. Tony's drinking had nearly stopped the wedding, and had nearly led to a divorce more than once; but he was fifteen months sober and Steve had never been prouder. Or more embarrassed, as Tony took some of the streamers from the party poppers and began to decorate Steve with them.</p><p class="western">'Will you stop?' Steve asked.</p><p class="western">'But my husband finally has a degree,' Tony sniffed theatrically. 'I no longer have to be ashamed of being married to a bimbo.'</p><p class="western">'Yeah, it'll really make a difference when I'm trying to make small talk at the graduation ceremony for your seventh PhD,' Steve started to roll his eyes, but Tony kissed him feather-light between them, before planting one firmly on his mouth, pulling him close.</p><p class="western">'For real, Steve. I'm really proud of you.'</p><p class="western">'Sap.'</p><p class="western">Surprising absolutely nobody, money really had made a difference to Steve's life. Getting him healthy enough physically and financially to go back to school and finish his bachelor's, for one thing. Getting his mother somewhere decent to live, for another. Plus the Maria Stark foundation was starting to make a difference in lives across the world, in all sort of ways. None of that, though, had made as much of an impact as Tony himself. Simply the act of loving, and being loved in return, made Steve feel alive in whole new ways. They'd done the whole thing backwards, getting married first and then getting to know each other after, but there wasn't a day in his life that Steve didn't wake up thinking how lucky he was. So he smiled back at Tony, taking off his graduation cap and plopping it onto Tony's head, before pulling him in for a kiss again. In the back of his mind, he was making all sorts of plans about what he was going to do just as soon as he could get Tony into the school and the back of a deserted supply closet. Preferably one where they kept paint.</p><p class="western">'Are you two ever going to stop being gross?' Bucky demanded, finally catching up and clapping a congratulatory hand on Steve's back.</p><p class="western">'I hope not,' Sarah said.</p><p class="western">'Got no plans to,' Tony said, letting Steve go anyway so they could move in to give their own hugs and congratulations. Tony had booked them all into a fancy restaurant for dinner, but Steve had absolutely no intention of going. He eyed Tony hungrily. He preferred his own plans for celebrating.</p><p class="western">'It makes me nervous,' Tony muttered in his ear, 'When you look at me like that. Makes me think you're planning something filthy.'</p><p class="western">Steve said nothing, just smiled at him innocently. Tony flushed pink.</p><p class="western">'I still want to be able to walk tomorrow, Rogers.'</p><p class="western">'No promises.'</p><p class="western">'We can hear you!' Bucky cried. 'Okay?! We can <em>always </em>hear you!'</p><p class="western">Steve couldn't help it, he laughed. Then he took Tony's hand. 'Then our cover is blown. Come on, Bar.'</p><p class="western">'Whatever you say, James.'</p><p class="western">'Can you not use my name in your sex games?!' Bucky yelled after them. They pretended not to hear as they walked away hand in hand.</p><p class="western">'Bucky drove us,' Tony said. 'I'll call us a cab home.'</p><p class="western">'You do that,' Steve agreed. 'And while we're waiting, I'll find us a closet.'</p><p class="western">Tony groaned. 'You're a menace. You're going to kill me. I'm so glad I married you.'</p><p class="western">'Well,' Steve said, smiling up at him, squeezing his hand tighter. 'I've got to make sure you get your money's worth.'</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>